


To Stand Outside His Gates

by Yuliares



Series: London Fog [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Confessions, Diary/Journal, Epistolary, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:53:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28342698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuliares/pseuds/Yuliares
Summary: With Holmes out of the house, Watson attempts some cathartic journaling.I fear my friend may sometimes be perceived as callous - and I should be the first to admit myself among them, though it was an unfair judgement to make. As a medic and an army man myself, I know what it is like to harden my heart. To lay emotions aside so that reason and training can take precedent. I’ve shared the darkest of jokes with my colleagues, laughter threading the needle between adrenaline and the stiff rigors of terror.And my friend invites the worst of London to come calling upon our steps.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: London Fog [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2175615
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	To Stand Outside His Gates

**Author's Note:**

> Some ACD fluff, because... yup. I just like fluff.

_I fear my friend may sometimes be perceived as callous - and I should be the first to admit myself among them, though it was an unfair judgement to make. As a medic and an army man myself, I know what it is like to harden my heart. To lay emotions aside so that reason and training can take precedent. I’ve shared the darkest of jokes with my colleagues, laughter threading the needle between adrenaline and the stiff rigors of terror._

_And my friend invites the worst of London to come calling upon our steps._

_No, if my friend is a machine, he is a delicate one - and has built his defences proportionally. For he does care, more than he lets on, and every misfortune to cross his path is a battering ram. That he persists with such conviction is but one of many of his virtues._

_It is these very virtues that draw me to him so irresistibly._

_Holmes does not know the extent of my feelings - of how I long to reach for him, the daily yearning that I ought to be numb to, but that catches me off-guard in the most mundane of moments. Just this morning, I watched him eat a small portion of eggs over the course of an entire hour, so distracted by his latest monograph as to go nearly ten minutes between each bite. Ridiculous man - and yet my heart swelled near to bursting. I had to excuse myself, before my no-doubt ridiculous expression could betray me to my extraordinarily perceptive friend._

_It must remain a secret, for multiple reasons - and each is, on its own, valid enough to stay my hand. To hope at all is wild and ludacris - but then, that is exactly the pace my heart beats when he catches my eye and grins._

_The first reason - the threat of the law, ever present - pales in comparison to the second, which is the risk of losing Holmes' fine regard. To have my dearest friend turn from me in disgust - to lose his friendship, the cold very lodgings I’ve come to call home. Our two seats set by the fireplace. His shadow passing mine as our paths cross and intertwine._

_Two very convincing, very selfish, reasons to keep my mouth shut. The last, however, is the most convincing of all._

_How could I, who sees the toll of burdens my friend so stoically shoulders, join the line at his door and ask that he lower a lifetime of defences?_

_I am not so wretched._

_And so I shall stand outside his gates, in my own vigil. I am not waiting. I will not knock. I will simply be there, by his side, for as long as he’ll have me._

Watson sighed, and scrubbed his face. They said journaling was supposed to help ease your worries, and though it certainly felt cathartic to release his fevered words, what he’d written was not lifting a burden. Quite the opposite - it was shifting a pack to sit more comfortably across his shoulders, to better carry it long-distance.

His eyes travelled to the clock on the mantle. Nearly one in the morning, and Holmes was still not home. For the best, really. Not like Watson could do maudlin journaling while his sharp-eyed flatmate was about. Watson struggled to smother a yawn, eyes losing focus. He’d get up in a minute, tear the page out and feed it to the dying fire. He yawned again, pen tapping at the paper, reading one of his sentences.

_I am not so wretched._

Ha! As if pining after his flatmate hadn’t already qualified him for such a title. Watson sighed, and let his head sag in defeat. Ironic, really. Holmes called him a fool without... even knowing... the half of it...

~

Watson woke with a start, nearly knocking his cup off the table, the cup clattering against the saucer. If it hadn’t been empty, he would have spilled it all over - his eyes flew to the door, the clock - six in the morning - then back to his journal. His stomach plummeted at the sight of a familiar handwriting that was not his own. Choking past the lump in his throat, Watson leant forward, at once desperate and terrified.

 _Watson,_ wrote the spidery hand. _For you, my gates are already open._


End file.
